A Little Respect
by nostalgia
Summary: Four being...well, himself really...


Title: A Little Respect   
Author: nostalgia   
Rating: G, for once.   
Disclaimathon: I own nothing. Alas. The BBC own the Doctor and his entourage. But then, people pay a TV licence fee, so does that mean that 'The People' own Doctor Who? No, is the answer.   
Summary: Four, being...well, himself.   
Author Babbles: Exam leave, an empty house and a large stack of Doctor Who videos...Here's one I made earlier!   
Feedback/Archive: If you feel like it. An email to tell me the URL you've archived it at would be nice. *emoticon*   
  
  
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"Are you sure you're qualified to do this?"   
  
"WHAT?!" The man questioning the Doctor looked ready to kill. But, then again, he had looked like that for the past three hours, so perhaps it didn't mean anything specific. Perhaps it was even his happy face.   
  
"It's just that you seem rather young to be part of an elite group of trained killers. You don't really look old enough to be in an elite group of anything. Sort of...fragile, really. Mind you, they say you know you're getting old when the people interrogating you get younger."   
  
"SHUT UP!"   
  
"You're right...absolutely...none of my business is it?"   
  
"SHUT UP!"   
  
"Yes, of course. But...would you mind shouting just the teensiest bit quieter, I'm getting the most appalling headache."   
  
"You should consider yourself lucky that you still have a head!"   
  
"Oh, I do, I do. It's awfully nice to feel lucky."   
  
"I will take the greatest pleasure in killing you, Doctor" The young man was sneering again. The Doctor suspected that his interrogator spent long hours practising that sneer in front of a mirror. And it still wasn't very good.   
  
"Good, good. I like to see young people getting satisfaction from their work. Not enough of that about these days if you ask me."   
  
"YOU WILL SHUT UP!! NOW!!"   
  
"Was that an order?"   
  
"Yes!"   
  
"Well it's just that I'm not sure that you can give me orders. I mean, I'm not in the military. Not in anyone's military...you might want to write that bit down, it sounds important. I'll tell them you tortured it out of me, if you like...where was I?"   
  
"SHUT UP!"   
  
"Yes, that was it, thank you...the military. I can't say that I've ever really wanted to be in the military - it always looks like there's a lot of unnecessary physical effort involved. And of course, you have people shooting at you all the time. Well, a lot of the time. Admittedly that's something that I get a lot of in my line of work, and I don't even get a nice uniform. Mind you, I once played the trumpet for the Salvation Army one Christmas when Mr Witherspoon had broken his arm. Do you know Mr Witherspoon? What am I saying, of course you don't! He ran the florists just round the corner from..."   
  
"SHUT UP! IMMEDIATELY!"   
  
"There's no use in shouting. Just because you say something loud enough, doesn't mean to say it'll happen. And really, you're in no position to be giving me orders."   
  
"And why not?" he asked dangerously.   
  
"Well, for one thing - as I've just so eloquently pointed out - I'm not actually under your command. And for another thing..." tailed off.   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"For another thing, my friend is standing behind you with a rather large knife in her hand, and if she were to get the idea that you were in some way planning to injure me, she might...well, there would be the most dreadful mess, probably warranting some sort of industrial action by your cleaners. You do have cleaners don't you? This is a very clean cell, all things considered. And I know about these things."   
  
"I have rescued you!" Leela held her hunting knife at the interrogator's throat triumphantly.   
  
"Yes, well done."   
  
"Shall I kill him?"   
  
"Who? Oh, him. Oh, no need."   
  
"He will sound the alarm!"   
  
"No, he's going to run away in a moment. Dreadful bother trying to run away when there are alarms going off. Makes it easier for people to catch you."   
  
The erstwhile interrogator managed a very good impersonation of courage for someone a muscle-contraction away from death. "I will never abandon my post!"   
  
"Really? So you'll still be here when someone in a shiner uniform than yours comes to ask where the prisoner's gone? Be sure to give them my regards, won't you?"   
  
The Doctor felt very proud of resisting any puns about 'military intelligence' as the young man...well, ran away.   
  
"You should have let me kill him. He would have killed you had he been given the chance."  
  
The Doctor followed Leela to where the TARDIS stood in the corner of the cell and unlocked the door. "What, that boy? No. He's lovely really. We had a nice chat about Mr Witherspoon the florist. Did I ever tell you about Mr Witherspoon? He..."   
  
The alarms went off as the TARDIS dematerialised. The time vehicle was rather pleased with itself that it managed drown them out. 


End file.
